


Just Start Loving Me

by caramelle



Series: Love in the First Degree [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Professor Bellamy, Student Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 11:05:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: "It's not evenyourgraduation day," Clarke points out after the fourth tie he tries on. "Why are you getting all... tense?""Why areyougetting all tense," he retorts — rather tensely."Averychill response," she comments idly.Or, the one where Clarke is graduating, and somehow, Bellamy's the nervous one.





	

**Author's Note:**

> technically, this IS a part two to the [college professor/student au](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10501125) i posted last week. BUT not to worry -- it's not absolutely necessary that you read that before starting on this. 
> 
> it IS, however, highly encouraged. y'know. just for kicks.
> 
> (title from 'Love on the Brain' by Rihanna. no i have not stopped listening to the Little Mix cover)
> 
>  
> 
> if you're into visuals, you can find one for this fic [here!](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com/post/159269248026)
> 
>  
> 
> sidenote: OBVIOUSLY, PhD holders generally tend to be on the other side of 30, so let's all just pretend for the next few thousand words of this fic that it doesn't take that flippin' long to earn one lmao

 

 

 

 

On one hand, Bellamy's aware that he's, objectively speaking, blessed with pretty decent-looking facial features.

 

He's worked them to his advantage many a time. Just ask sixteen-year-old Bellamy. Or eighteen-year-old Bellamy. Or twenty-one-year-old — whatever, it was a long time ago, all right? He's long stopped trying to be anywhere _near_ as douche-y.

 

(On second thought, maybe _don't_ ask sixteen-year-old Bellamy. Sixteen-year-old Bellamy had a relationship with hair gel that present Bellamy can now only describe as codependent.)

 

The point is, he doesn't really _try_ to _be_ good-looking anymore. He fills his wardrobe with decent, serviceable shirts and sweaters and shoes, and leaves the trendy stuff for the _youth._

 

On the other hand, he kind of really, _really_ wants to look good for graduation day.

 

"It's not even _your_ graduation day," Clarke points out after the fourth tie he tries on. "Why are you getting all... _tense_?"

 

"Why are _you_ getting all tense," he retorts — rather tensely. He huffs, whipping off the red tie loosely knotted around his neck before delving back into his closet to avoid her eye.

 

"A _very_ chill response," she comments idly from where she's sprawled out on his bed, belly-down with her bare heels knocking together in the air.

 

He sighs, riffling sluggishly through his small collection of ties. "Maybe I should just pull a Shia LaBeouf. Turn up with a paper bag over my head."

 

"Somehow, I _really_ doubt you proclaiming that you're 'not famous anymore' will have the same effect."

 

He allows himself a helpless snort at his girlfriend's dry quip, slumping readily into her arms when they slide around him from behind.

 

"What's up, babe?" Clarke asks, her small fingers interlocking around his middle. "You wanna tell me why you're trying so hard to look prettier than me?"

 

He scoffs gently, turning in the circle of her arms to face her, his hands sliding up to cup her face. "It's not _possible_ to be prettier than you, princess. Not even for me."

 

She scrunches her nose under the affectionate kiss he plants on it. "Did you just… give me a compliment, and then turn it into a compliment for _yourself_?"

 

"You've fed my ego too much," he informs her, grinning despite himself as he brushes stray strands of blonde out of her face. "I'm obnoxiously aware of my own hotness now."

 

"Reminder to self," she deadpans, her own wide smile betraying her monotone. "Stop telling boyfriend how good he looks all the time."

 

He can't help but lean in, fingers stealing into her hair so he can drop another kiss on her upturned lips.

 

"Now," he says briskly once they pull apart, hands sliding down to press against her back,  "you're up, Griffin. Assemble me a decent outfit with your discerning eye."

 

"This is _not_  the art my degree prepared me for," she says emphatically, but she lets herself be turned sideways to face the contents of his closet. She's always had a better flair for this sort of thing anyway, and they both know it.

 

 

* * *

 

  

The Bellamy of three-and-a-half months ago would _like_ to think that he's good at his job.

 

He almost starts to believe it, too. After all, he's nearly made it all the way through his very first year of being a proper, bona fide _college professor._

 

And then the final semester of the year starts.

 

Around three weeks into it, he starts noticing a blonde girl in his Tuesday and Thursday morning lectures. She always sits towards the back, she always brings some sort of oversized hoodie or sweater with too-long sleeves, and she always has a paper cup with her. Probably coffee, he guesses. That's nothing new for morning lectures.

 

What _is_ new, however, is the way she starts coming up to him after classes.

 

At first, he thinks it might be a poorly disguised attempt at brown-nosing. Charm the teacher enough, hope they'll let your B-grade work slide into 'A' territory.

 

But she actually asks questions about the _work_ — questions that aren't just different variations of _'so when is this due again'_ — and it's more than enough to make him sit up and pay attention.

 

Well. Even _more_ attention, that is.

 

(Whatever, he can admit it now.)

 

And then, right when he's convinced himself that it was just a one-time fluke, she does it _again_ the very next lecture. And the one after that. And the one after _that._

 

And then he learns how legitimately _smart_ she is. And sharp. And _funny,_ too, in that dry, almost morbid sort of way he wouldn't have ever expected from a _twenty-two-year-old._

 

(Technically, she's not twenty-two _yet_ … but thinking of it this way makes him feel just the slightest bit better about himself.)

 

He doesn't really know what he's hoping to achieve by lending her one of his books. Granted, it's a book from which one of the mandatory course readings had been taken from. But save for the chapter he'd Xeroxed for the class, the rest of the book is really just… well, _extracurricular._

 

The day she returns it to him, he's already lowering his expectations to prepare himself for a few regurgitated CliffsNotes-esque comments. He's well acquainted with those. It's the usual bullshit students spew when they haven't actually _read_ the book, just Googled a bunch of stuff about it.

 

To his surprise, she launches straight into a barrage of questions, barely even bothering with a proper greeting before she's already opening up the book to point out specific passages and sections.

 

When she flips to a map in Chapter Twenty-One and instantly starts apologising for a couple of pencilled arrows and notes she'd left on the page, he pretty much falls half in love.

 

He more or less falls the rest of the way when she calls him 'Bellamy' for the first time.

 

And then, a few weeks later, he finds out what it feels like to fall even deeper than _that_ when she somehow manages to spend a full half hour debating with him on whether or not Snoop Dogg can be considered a ' _true_ American icon' — all while she's supposedly studying for a final they both already know she's going to ace.

 

He warns himself not to _do_ anything about any of it, no matter what. He's still her teacher. She's still his student.

 

And also, he's got a strong feeling that the Collins kid is into her. In a major, _major_ way. (If subtlety were a college class, that boy would definitely be getting an 'F'.)

 

All the same, he can't help but let himself bask in the precious little he's allowed to have. The small smiles she flashes him from her seat when he cracks a pun midway through a lecture. The excited skip she does down the steps once class is over. The almost-habit she forms of hopping up to perch on his desk when their conversations drag on, way past regular consultation hours and well beyond anything to do with ancient civilisations.

 

He lets himself soak it all up, telling himself over and over to _be patient._

 

After all, there's no rush. He's almost made it through the entire semester. They _both_ have.

 

He can wait just a little longer.

 

The last ten hours turn out to be the fucking worst.

 

It's a little ridiculous, he'll admit. Ten hours between the end of their last official class as teacher and student, and their first real, romantic date. _Ten hours._ It's really not that much of a stretch.

 

The drive to the restaurant Clarke chooses is barely ten minutes. All the same, he's reluctant to let go of her hand, intertwining it with his before tugging it across the gearshift to rest on his knee. She teases him relentlessly about it, but her fingers curl readily around his, just as eager and wanting as he.

 

He thinks it's probably just the high of exhilaration that comes with something new.

 

Two weeks on, he's starting to wonder if it isn't just the high of exhilaration that comes with _Clarke._

 

There aren't any words to describe just how _good_ it feels to finally _be_ with her. _Finally,_ after thirteen weeks. Thirteen arduous, agonising weeks of waiting, and waiting, and _waiting_. Now he can let himself look at her as long as he wants, watch her hand reach for him without flinching to hold himself back. She can _kiss him_ whenever she wants — and he can let himself _kiss her back._

 

 _'Worth it'_ seems like a mere shadow of an expression, too pale and bland to match the vibrant _thing_ thrumming through every vein in his body, alive and bright.

 

 

* * *

 

 

" _Quit_ it."

 

Bellamy freezes, his drumming fingers abruptly stilling on his thigh. He glances sideways at Miller.

 

"Why?" he prods, hoping to deflect the attention away from himself. "You actually trying to _listen_ to Jaha's speech or something?"

 

"No," Miller says through gritted teeth. "But all your damn _fidgeting_ is making it _twice_ as hard to _ignore_ the stupid speech." He turns slightly, one brow raised. "The fuck's up with you, man? You've been jittery all morning."

 

" _You've_ been jittery all morning," Bellamy mutters resentfully, rubbing his palms over his slacks.

 

Miller doesn't even seem offended; only thoroughly perplexed. "What?"

 

"Sorry," Bellamy breathes, tugging at the knot of his tie. "Just a little, uh, warm."

 

Miller tilts his shorn head. "Is that code for _warm,_ or code for lowkey anxious about something?"

 

Bellamy sighs. "Did you really just say 'lowkey'? You realise you're a _college professor,_ right?"

 

"Emphasis on _'college'_ ," Miller says. "Also, technically, we're on summer break." His elbow bumps into Bellamy's. "What's up, Blake? Nervous about meeting Mama Griffin?"

 

Bellamy has to work extra hard to swallow the lump in his throat. "What if she hates me? Not just like in a 'no man is good enough for my daughter' kind of way, but a genuine, like, 'I hate everything you choose to be as a person' type of thing."

 

Miller raises a disbelieving brow. "Dude. You spend, like, eighty-five percent of your life talking about dead languages and cultures and shit. Why would anyone hate on you for that?"

 

"Maybe it's not _good_ enough, or whatever," Bellamy frets, his fingers starting up again the more his anxiety rises, tap tap tapping away on his leg. "Her mother's a fucking _Senator_ , Miller. Her stepdad's in _Congress._ I'm a _college lecturer._ It's not exactly the most… _lucrative_ career option."

 

"The fuck're you talking about?" Miller says, forehead crinkled in a frown. "Parents _love_ teachers. Plus, you were _her_ teacher."

 

He pauses, eyes widening. "Oh, shit. They already know you were _her_ teacher, right?"

 

Bellamy waves a dismissive hand. "Yeah. Clarke would've told them." He pauses, a sudden flash of chilling doubt streaking through his system. "Clarke _should've_ told them?

 

Miller's jaw drops. "You didn't _ask_?"

 

Bellamy performs a sort of half flail with his hands, too torn between his agitation and the need to at least _look_ like he's got his limbs under control while the president of the university is just twelve feet away, smack in the middle of his annual graduation address. "I was a little _preoccupied_ with panicking about the _rest_ of it, okay!"

 

Miller shakes his head, looking genuinely disappointed. "I literally don't even know how you have a Ph.D."

 

Bellamy bites down on the retort that springs to mind, shoving his hand into his pocket in desperate search of his phone.

 

"She's not gonna reply," Miller pronounces calmly as his thumbs skid across the blank text box.

 

"Wha— how do _you_ know?"

 

His friend shrugs. "They never do when you need them to," he says, sagely and a little darkly.

 

Bellamy hits send anyway, shooting Miller a belligerent look. "Shut up. You've never even _had_ a girlfriend."

 

Miller looks at him, brows lifted high with surprise. "Who's talking about girlfriends? I meant _millennials._ "

 

 

* * *

 

  

He realises it's a little stupid of him to be freaking out this hard over meeting his girlfriend's parents.

 

After all, it's not like they're coming to town _just_ to see him. They're coming for their daughter. They're coming to watch her graduate college, to celebrate her transition into the next phase of her life. This is really just a meeting of convenience — a might-as-well thing.

 

All the same, he and Clarke have only been together for _two weeks._

 

Plus, _now,_ there's the whole matter of him having to figure out some way to work in some variation of _'oh, yeah, by the by, up until about two weeks ago, I was your daughter's ancient civilisations professor'_.

 

All things considered, he thinks he's allowed to his fair share of freaking out.

 

By the time the ceremony ends, he's still scrambling to cobble together the exact right _phrasing_ for _"hello, Mrs. Griffin"_ — no, Mrs. _Kane,_ he reminds himself quickly as he works his way through the crowded yard. It's _"hello, Mrs. Kane."_

 

… Or maybe he should go with 'hey'. How would a Senator feel about 'hi'?

 

 _Whatever you do,_ he reminds himself fervently as he scans through the clusters of people caught up in excited squeals and camera flashes, _DON'T talk about the weather._

 

It's a classic sign of _weakness._

 

His heart does the weirdest fucking flip-and-clench when he spots Clarke by the large cedar tree, her entire face lighting up when she sees him. She's already joined up with her mother and stepfather, the two of them dressed sharply and standing side by side with their backs to him.

 

Before he can wave, her gaze flips right back to the brown-haired woman in front of her, brows raised as her attention turns to whatever it is her mother's saying.

 

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ he tells himself calmly as he covers the last twelve or so feet between them, making sure to wipe his clammy hands on his pants _before_ the brown-haired woman turns around.

 

"Hi, Bellamy," he says solemnly, thrusting his hand out.

 

Abigail Griffin — no, Abigail _Kane_ merely looks up at him, the slightest furrow crossing her well-groomed brows.

 

"... is my name," he finishes lamely. All the same, he keeps his eyes on Abigail Kane, refusing to look at Clarke for help. "I'm— I'm Bellamy."

 

A pause.

 

"Ma'am," he adds. His hands are starting to clam up again. "Lovely weather, isn't it?"

 

_Fuck._

 

"He's nervous," Clarke says helpfully, clearly not bothering to hide her enjoyment of his discomfort. _God,_ he lo— _likes_ her.

 

"I noticed," her mother says dryly, reaching out to take his hand as — thank _God_ — the corners of her mouth twitch upwards, like she's fighting a smile. "Hello, Bellamy. You can call me Abby."

 

"Yes, 'ma'am' is for the office," her husband interjects, wearing a grin that's decidedly warmer as he reaches out for his turn at shaking Bellamy's hand. "Marcus."

 

"Sir," Bellamy says in greeting, and then pauses at the pointed look Clarke's stepfather gives him. "Marcus," he amends, releasing the other man's hand with a sheepish nod.

 

"Quick learner," Marcus says approvingly, stepping back with a warm smile.

 

"The quickest," Clarke says, her hand affectionately skimming over his arm. She glances off to the side at the sound of her name being called, waving at a small group of kids clustered a few feet away, all dressed in caps and gowns as well.

 

Bellamy nods politely at the extra wave Jasper Jordan gives him, one lanky arm windmilling through the air. It's hard to get annoyed when anyone's that obliviously earnest.

 

"I gotta go," she says apologetically, circling her thumb and index finger in an 'okay' sign to Monty Green as he exaggeratedly mimes taking pictures with a camera. She turns back to her parents and Bellamy, squeezing his arm reassuringly. "Back in a sec, okay? Be nice," she adds to her mother, flashing them all one last smile before disappearing to join her friends.

 

Fuck. Okay, cool. He can deal with this. He just has to get through, like, two minutes of being alone with his girlfriend's mother and stepfather.

 

"How was the flight?" he asks, at the exact same time Abby says, "Wonderful ceremony, wasn't it?"

 

Both of them break out into tentative smiles, shaking their heads as Marcus laughs heartily.

 

"I'm sorry," Bellamy says, starting to relax somewhat in the older couple's presence. They can _laugh._ It's a good sign. "I promise I'm usually not this awkward."

 

"I imagine this is somewhat of an unnerving situation," Marcus says warmly. "Meeting the parents, especially when the relationship is still new."

 

"Yeah, _unnerving_ ," Bellamy echoes with a rueful smile. "Although, I did want to clear something up before—"

 

"Yo, _professor!_ "

 

No. Please, God, _no._

 

Two freshly graduated students materialise out of nowhere, both bright-eyed and breathless from the exhilaration of the day.

 

"I did it!" one of them crows, thrusting his diploma into Bellamy's face. "Can you believe it? I _graduated,_ prof!"

 

"Never doubted you for a second, John," Bellamy says dryly, leaning back from the rolled up piece of paper before it can give his nose a papercut. It's a lie. He's actually had _several_ doubts about John Mbege's ability to make it to the end of the academic tunnel over the last couple of years.

 

The girl beside John steps forward, a gold marker in her outstretched hand. "Sign my hat, Professor Blake?"

 

Bellamy's face flushes, every cell in his body hyper aware of the couple standing barely two feet away from him, silently observing the proceedings.

 

"Sure, Fox," he says, keeping his tone as light as he can as he takes the marker. She turns readily so the flat plain of her graduation cap faces him, already three-quarters of the way covered in gold signatures. Bending his head over it, he resolutely keeps his eyes on where he's scribbling out his name and a brief ' _Congrats!'_

 

"All done," he says, replacing the cap on the marker as she turns back around to beam at him, John Mbege still bouncing up and down excitedly beside her. "Congratulations, both of you. Keep him out of trouble, okay?" he adds to the girl as he hands over her marker.

 

She rolls her eyes in mock exasperation, grabbing the other boy's arm to steer him away. "No way. I've already suffered through four years of that. Someone else can take over."

 

After one last round of smiles and _'thanks, teach!'_ , the two of them dash off, gowns whipping behind them.

 

Bellamy turns slowly, dread already building in the pit of his stomach.

 

Abby and Marcus's faces are completely neutral. If he didn't know any better, he would even swear that they were sort of _smiling_ a little.

 

Fuck. They must be _really_ fucking good at their jobs.

 

"Sorry about that," he says slowly, reaching up to adjust his glasses. They're not slipping down his nose or anything — he just really wants something to _do_ with his hands.

 

"It's fine, Bellamy," Abby says, the corners of her mouth twitching a little. She pauses, giving him a pointed look. "I can only hope Clarke was slightly less trouble as a student."

 

All the breath rushes out of his lungs, relief washing over him like a tidal wave. "She told you," he blurts out, eyes darting between the couple.

 

"She did," Abby confirms, her tone flattening easily in a way that instantly lets him know where Clarke gets her impressive deadpan from. "Although, as for whether it was intentional or not, I still have my doubts."

 

"We asked if we should save you a seat," Marcus explains at Bellamy's confused frown. "For the ceremony. And then we were informed that you would already have your own seat. In the faculty section."

 

"Right," Bellamy says, resisting the urge to tug at the knot of his tie. "Sorry. I just wanted to— well. Make sure everything was okay."

 

Abby folds her arms across her neatly pressed suit, surveying him carefully. "Well, technically, you have nothing to apologise for. You two _did_ wait till the semester was over before anything really… _happened._ "

 

"We did," he confirms, sobering quickly. God, he feels like he's in a _job interview._ The most important one of his _life._

 

Abby shifts, head inclined sideways as if considering him. "To tell the truth, I'm still not sure if I _love_ the whole idea yet, but… I do love my daughter."

 

 _Yeah,_ Bellamy thinks before he can stop himself. _So do I._

 

"Yes," he says instead after a long beat. He lets his gaze meet Abby's without flinching, his jaw clenching as he struggles to find something _else_ to say. "She loves you, too."

 

For some reason, the scrutinising look on Abby's face softens. He's vaguely relieved, but also slightly disconcerted by the calculating furrow of her brow. It's almost like she's _heard_ him — even the things he didn't say it out loud.

 

Thankfully, their pseudo stand-off is interrupted by Clarke's return.

 

"Sorry," she exclaims, brushing her windswept locks out of her eyes. She's taken off her graduation cap, the item tucked securely under one arm and pressed against her side. "My friends have problems with simple instructions, like 'jump on three'." She casts Bellamy a grateful look as he takes the cap out from under her elbow, leaving her with both hands free to fix her hair. "And this is _after_ getting the degree, too."

 

"Truly the future of our great nation," Abby says with a small smile. Bellamy looks at her, pleasantly surprised. Mama Griffin's got _jokes._

 

Marcus claps his hands, rubbing them together with a big grin on his face. "Time for celebratory waffles, I think! Come on, car's this way."

 

Clarke slips her arm into his when her parents turn away, pressing into his side as they follow behind the older couple.

 

"Good job," she says, her smile wide even as she keeps her voice low.

 

He shakes his head automatically. "On what?"

 

She nudges her chin towards her mother's perfectly postured back. "She doesn't do that a lot. The whole humour thing, I mean." She glances at him, eyes sparkling as she bumps her shoulder into his. "It means she likes you."

 

He exhales, gently shifting his arm out of her grasp so he can take her hand in his. "I like _you._ "

 

She rolls her eyes, her cheeks flushing with a warm pink hue despite the big show of embarrassment. "Oh my _God_."

 

He grins, swinging their joined hands up so he can press his lips to the back of hers.

 

"Don't worry," he says, tugging her closer even though they're already practically melded to each other's sides. "I'll save the _really_ sappy stuff for waffles with your parents."

 

**Author's Note:**

> would love to hear what you thought! (esp those who were asking for a pt 2, thank you so much for the encouragement!)
> 
> icmyi, a little graphic for this fic can be found [here!](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com/post/159269248026)
> 
> i'm [ on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com)


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